MY MAN

Two

Selene

The Sterling pitch had gone exactly as I’d rehearsed. By Monday afternoon, I was riding the high that only comes from commanding a boardroom full of men in charcoal suits who realized halfway through my presentation that I was the smartest person in the room. I walked out of the glass-walled office building into the crisp evening air, feeling like I was vibrating on a different frequency than the rest of the sidewalk traffic. I needed a drink, a loud room, and my people.

I messaged the group chat: 

"Sterling is in the bag. Drinks at The Sinclair. First round is on my commission."

By the time I arrived at the bar, the amber lighting and the low hum of post-work chatter felt like a warm bath. The Sinclair was our spot—expensive enough to keep the tourists out, but dim enough to feel private. Lucy was already there, perched on a velvet stool, looking like a dream in an oversized blazer. But it was the person sitting next to her that made me pause mid-stride.

Vivian.

She was turned away from me, laughing at something Lucy had said. But it wasn't the laugh that stopped me. It was the silhouette. From behind, for a split second, I thought I was looking at a mirror. Vivian’s hair, which had been a soft, honey-blonde bob only forty-eight hours ago, was now a deep, rich mahogany—almost the exact shade of my own. She had it styled in the same sleek, center-parted blowout I’d worn to brunch on Saturday.

I shook the thought away. It was a common color. I was being narcissistic.

"There she is!" Lucy cheered, raising a martini glass as I approached. "The woman, the myth, the Sterling slayer. Sit. Drink. Tell us everything."

"It was a bloodbath," I joked, sliding into the stool on the other side of Lucy, purposefully avoiding the seat directly next to Vivian. "They didn't stand a chance once I showed them the mock-ups for the autumn campaign."

"I knew you'd kill it," Vivian said. She turned toward me, and the breath caught in my throat. It wasn't just the hair. She was wearing a silk camisole in a shade of champagne so close to the one I’d worn Saturday that it had to be from the same boutique. She’d even paired it with gold hoops of a similar diameter.

The coincidence was so loud it was almost deafening.

"Vivian," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Love the hair. It’s a big change."

She reached up, running a hand down the sleek strands with a shy, fluttering movement. "Do you like it? I just felt like I needed a refresh. My old look felt so... mousy. I remembered how much I loved the way the light caught your hair at brunch, and I thought, why not try something bolder? Does it look okay? I was worried it might be too much."

"It looks great," I said, though the words felt like dry crackers in my mouth. "Very sophisticated."

"See?" Vivian said, turning to Lucy with a triumphant little smile. "I told you Selene wouldn't mind. I was so worried she’d think I was a copycat, but she’s way too secure for that, aren't you, Selene?"

It was a perfect checkmate. If I expressed even a hint of discomfort, I was "insecure." If I stayed quiet, I was giving her permission to keep mining my identity for parts.

"Of course," I replied, forcing a smile as the waiter set my drink down. "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?"

"Exactly," Vivian whispered, her eyes locking onto mine over the rim of her glass. "I just want to be more like you. Is that so wrong?"

The evening continued, but the triumph of my pitch began to sour. Every time I told a story about the office, Vivian would chime in with a similar anecdote, often twisting it to make herself sound like the underdog who needed advice. She was playing the "sweet, learning younger sister" role to perfection, drawing the group in.

"Oh, Selene is so much better at that than me," she’d say whenever a topic like fashion or career strategy came up. "I'm just trying to keep up."

She was centering me in the conversation, but in a way that felt like she was pinning me to a board like a butterfly. She was highlighting my "superiority" to make herself seem more relatable to the others. I watched Lucy, expecting her to roll her eyes at the blatant sycophancy, but Lucy was already three drinks in and laughing at Vivian’s self-deprecating jokes.

"You guys should have seen her at the salon," Lucy laughed, nudging Vivian. "She brought in a photo of us from last New Year's and told the stylist, 'Give me the Selene.' It was actually kind of cute."

My grip tightened on my glass. Give me the Selene. The phrase echoed in my head, cold and clinical. It wasn't just a haircut. It was a request for a package.

"I didn't realize I was a catalog option now," I said, my tone a bit sharper than I intended.

The table went quiet for a heartbeat. Vivian’s lower lip trembled—just enough to be visible, not enough to be a scene. "Oh, Selene, I didn't mean it like that. I just... I’ve always admired your bone structure. I thought the color would help me find some of that 'Sterling slayer' energy. I’m sorry if I overstepped."

"She's kidding, Viv," Lucy said, giving me a look that clearly told me to lighten up. "Selene loves being the blueprint. Don't you, babe?"

"Always," I said, taking a long sip of my drink.

But as the night wore on, I noticed the subtle shifts. When a handsome guy at the end of the bar looked our way, Vivian didn't look back at him. She looked at me to see how I would react. When I laughed at a joke, she waited half a second and then mimicked the exact pitch of my laugh.

She wasn't just copying my clothes or my hair. She was practicing my presence.

Around 10:00 PM, I excused myself to go to the restroom. I stood at the mirror, splashing cold water on my face, trying to regain that sense of "gravity" I’d felt earlier that afternoon. I looked at my reflection—the dark hair, the champagne silk, the gold hoops.

The door opened behind me. Vivian walked in, letting the heavy wood door swing shut with a soft thud.

She didn't go to a stall. She didn't go to the other sink. She walked right up behind me, looking at our joined reflection in the mirror. Side by side, the resemblance was jarring. She was slightly thinner, her face a bit narrower, but with the same hair and the same clothes, we looked like sisters. Or like a "Before" and "After" advertisement.

"We look good together, don't we?" she asked, her voice echoing off the tile.

"Vivian, what are you doing?" I asked, turning to face her.

"I just wanted to thank you," she said, stepping closer.

She was in my personal space now, close enough that I could smell her perfume. It was my perfume. The niche Santal blend I’d ordered from France. My heart hammered against my ribs. 

"For being such an inspiration. You have everything, Selene. The job, the look, the respect. I used to think I was invisible. But tonight, with this hair and this top... I felt like people actually saw me."

"You don't need to be me to be seen, Vivian," I said, my voice low.

"Don't I?" She tilted her head, a stray lock of her new dark hair falling over her eye. "Because when I was just Vivian, you didn't even remember my last name at that dinner in June. But now? Now you're looking at me. Now you're thinking about me. I think I like this much better."

She reached out, her fingers grazing the silk on my shoulder, before she turned and walked out of the restroom without another word.

I stayed there for a long time, the sound of the bar's muffled music thumping through the walls. I felt a cold, hollow dread settling in my stomach. The Sterling pitch felt a million miles away. I wasn't the smartest person in the room anymore. I was a target.

And the worst part? If I told anyone, I’d sound like the crazy one.